White
by Delgodess
Summary: I'm the bastard child of a whore. And my unwitting father? Let's just say he has a strange attachment to toads. SI. FOC.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I don't own _Naruto_.**

* * *

The first time I met the man I'd come to call '_Father'_, I was four years old. It was not a pleasant experience.

"You have to take it! I can't afford the drop in business and it's been here long enough!"

Crouching next to the sliding doors in a dimly lit hallway is understandably uncomfortable. Listening in on a conversation of this nature is more so. I hear a deep voice stutter.

"What- I can't- _You're_ _the_ _mother_!"

I had no delusions when it came to my situation. The woman who gave birth to me did not love me. It had been jarring at first; used to a large, caring, and perhaps a bit over bearing family as it was. _Was_ being the most significant term. Discovering that I'd been reborn (as a bastard at that) had been a field day. But the 'Fictional World' part? That had kinda taken the cake.

"And you did that to me! Take some _responsibility_!"

'Mother Dearest' wasn't truly callous and unfeeling. It was simply a product of her trade. She _literally_ could not afford me. And given who my father was, she'd opted to dump me in his unlucky arms at the first opportunity. Unfortunately for her, said opportunity had been long overdue – he was a man known for his wandering ways after all. That said- the bastard couldn't be found, let alone sent for. It was pure chance that he appeared back in this particular brothel, in this particular slum, of this _particular_ city. Still, I was grateful that the woman had enough sense to keep me around until he showed up. Who knows what would have happened if I'd been abandoned in some backwater orphanage?

A shiver passes though my body and I choose to ignore that train of thought. Instead, I lean my left shoulder against the polished wood of the wall, faded fabric of my clothing flattening against me with the movement. My worn, straw sandals are soundless as I shift, trying to get more comfortable. Still, I keep a sharp ear to the conversation, riveted to it. My life- my _future_\- hangs in the balance.

"_Responsibility_? _You_ were never forced into anything!"

"And _you_ should have listened to me and used protection!"

I wince at the reference to what was done. Some things a child _really_ doesn't need to hear. Thank god I had the mind of a twenty-five year old. I can feel the prickly white strands of my hair against the nape of my neck, the coarse thickness of my high pony-tail doing little to soak up the anxious sweat building on my skin. I know what I must look like: A scrawny urchin obviously ease-dropping in a dim corner, dark green eyes (inherited from my mother) squinting, the beginnings of strange red markings barely visible in the light. I'm pouting, I can feel it, but I can't seem to care. What if he refuses to take me? What if I'm stuck here? My tan fingers curl over the jug of sake I'd been ordered to bring to one of the other rooms, small, childish hands shaking. I flinch when I hear his next words, the dead serious intonation.

"You know I can't take the kid."

'_I don't want to stay_,' I realize. Yes, I have been cared for, albeit grudgingly. Yes, I have been unknown, hidden from ambitious eyes; safe in my obscurity. But…

I had a chance to _live_. To truly experience what this world had to offer- dangers and all. And if it was taken from me… I don't know _what_ I would do.

They are still arguing inside, but I hardly notice, overwhelmed by a feeling of despair. I was four years old. Why couldn't I just…

The relative silence is shattered by the sake bottle slipping from my fingers, falling with a dull thud against the carpeted floor. The voices cease and I can feel the tension in the air rise. My gaze is locked on the liquid slowly soaking into my shoes and I find myself breathless.

"Shirane? Come inside."

I swallow, struggling to hold back tears. I school my features like I have been taught, standing and stepping over the mess I made to open the door.

It slips over its track easily, the gentle _shink_ of wood, loud in my ears. I keep my head down as I enter, afraid of looking up with too much hope.

The room is familiar in a soft _look-but-don't-touch_ kind of way, silk pillows and wispy curtains lining the space. In the center is a low table, the poured alcohol on it sitting untouched. Unlike the other rooms being used today, it is bright, the lights usually dimmed for ambience turned up to show everything in sharp relief.

The woman who raised me sits primly, tanned legs crossed beneath revealing skirts, arms folded across her generous chest. Her posture is defensive, but the hint of aggression is there; in her pursed red lips, frowning brows and sharp eyes. Her glossy brown hair is pulled into a loose bun, wayward tresses falling to frame her face.

She is beautiful, my Mother.

I feel a pang of bitterness, a longing for what might have been. But she isn't like my old Mother, my _real_ Mother, so I let it go.

When I finally do look at him, I am not as shocked as I should be. He is a mountain of a man; tall, broad-shouldered. Mother is dwarfed by him and I- I am a child. There is no comparison.

'_But then_,' I think, '_there __**is**__.'_

I have his unruly hair, all spikes and daggers. His markings: the bloody tear-stains that run down his cheeks. I'm sure there is more, but I'm captured by his eyes, his face. He is younger than I thought he would be; but I hadn't really been paying attention to dates up to this point and, to be honest, the timing had always been unclear to me, even in the _Before_.

His eyes are dark, unfathomable.

I can't read any emotion in them and it scares me, because though my world has been a sharp mask of smiles and changing faces, I could always, _always_ read the lies in their eyes.

In his- there is nothing.

I see the large hands in his lap curl together tightly, the only sign that he recognizes me as _his_. He can clearly see that his blood runs though my veins and I think it shocks him enough that he gives that little tell.

And it comforts me, because at least if I'm left here- I _know_ that _he_ knows what I am.

I step into the room, ignoring the other adult seated there. I lift my head defiantly, daring him to question my existence. And I stare Jiraiya down, refusing to look away from the Toad Sage Sannin; the man who helped create me.

My first words to my Father are little more than a bold statement.

"You don't want me."

I know the silence has turned awkward. And I know I shouldn't care that he doesn't answer, because, _damnit_, I'm an adult in a child's body and _I can take care of myself_.

But it still hurts.

I turn away stiffly, slowly folding my tiny arms behind me and bowing in my Mother's direction.

"Is that all you needed, Mother?"

She flicks her wrists, looking uninterested.

"Yes."

Her voice is smooth like chocolate- dark, with no hint of sweetness. And I ache, because even though she doesn't love me, _I love her_. And it's unfair that I feel this way, but my mature mind has trouble with these innocent emotions, because I remember the nostalgia of childhood and _know_ that this is not the way it is supposed to be.

My head bobs in a nod and I turn heel, sliding the door shut behind me. I want to cry, but again, I hold it back. Dropping to my knees, I begin rolling up the carpet I've soiled, removing the ceramic sake bottle as I do so. The discussion in the room behind me doesn't resume and I know it is because they are waiting for me to leave, keeping me in agonizing suspense.

'_Why does it matter?'_ I wonder as I finish my task. I know that, unlike others, I don't want to change anything. I don't care to make the world better; neither do I care to make it worse.

I want…

'_I want my family back,'_ I murmur internally. I want the smiles, the jokes. The warm feeling of contentment that comes from just being in their presence. In the _Before_, I had loved my personal space and the 'me time' that came with it. Now… I wish I hadn't been so selfish.

I stand, balancing the heavy fabric in my arms as I reach down to grip the bottle. It's a difficult task for one so small, but I mange the weight of both, somehow.

Looking to my future is bleak. I would grow up, become a prostitute, _maybe_ run away to do… something else. I don't know. At least as a shinobi, I would have purpose in life, a goal. I'm lost and I don't just say that because this hallway never seems to end.

The kitchens come first and I quietly slip the empty bottle on the table, struggling a little as I do so. Then I'm pattering silently towards the very back of the building, used to how the mysterious splendor of polished wood and wafting perfume fades into shabbiness and harsh soap. The carpet is disposed of and I hurry back to the kitchen, racing though the hallways to deliver the far-too-late liquor to its recipients. They are understandably displeased, but too caught up with each other to care overly much.

I beat a hasty retreat back to the kitchens and inform the cook (a large, but kind, fellow) that I am ready for duty. Surprisingly, he takes one look at me and sends me gruffly off to bed.

Of course, I don't realize that my eyes are red from crying, because I'm only four and it's tough to discover that no one wants you.

I go to bed in my rickety cot stuffed in a closet, clutching a worn, hand-sewn frog toy that had been with me for as long as I could remember. Then I sleep.

I dream of strong arms lifting me, holding me close enough that I can smell ink and parchment, until I feel like I'm awash in a wave of white.

I don't know that I'm crying in my sleep, despite the small smile on my face.

* * *

**AN: Well? What do you think?**

**Review Please!**

**Shirane means: White wave.**

**~Delgodess**


	2. Chapter 2

When I wake, it is to the sound of bird calls and the gentle rock of movement. My face is pressed deeply (and contently) into a sea of white hair. It smells musty with sweat, but beneath that is something familiar, though I can't place from where.

I come to the sudden realization that I'm being carried (gently, _oh_ so gently) on a very broad back. For a moment I panic, because I don't know where I am and I'm too small to defend myself and-

Then I hear it. It's a soft tune, an absent hum from the person carrying me. It's a lullaby, I _know_ it is, and it does what it's meant to: it lulls me into calmness. My adult rationality kicks in and I _remember_.

_You _know_ I can't take the kid. _

_You don't _want_ me._

I've only ever seen one person with hair as white as my own, so slowly, I pull away from my comfortable position to peek.

_Jiraiya_.

I study his profile and I know that he _knows_ I'm doing it, but he lets me and doesn't say anything, so I just continue staring.

The man is not as I remember him, in the _Before_. But then, it's hard to adjust from seeing images (cartoons depictions, really) to seeing the real deal. He's just… so much _more_. Alive, I mean. And _so_ much younger than what I've seen. If I'd had to venture a guess, I'd say that he's somewhere in his late twenties, probably early thirties.

It narrows down things for me, so now I know the rough 'when' of where I am. It isn't comforting to know that I've landed smack dab in the middle of the Third Shinobi War, but I've listened in on enough 'guests' to suspect as much already.

A cool breeze lifts his hair into my face and my arms tense to brush it away, stopping when I feel where my hands are. They hang limply over his shoulders, his own arms wrapped beneath my bottom to hold me in place against his back. My teeth suck in my bottom lip, gnawing on it. I'm curious and mildly baffled. I don't know how he's balancing me in this odd piggy-back, as usually piggy-backs require the cooperation of both participants. I can't tell if he's just leaning forward more (it doesn't seem like it) or if he's really just that awesome.

I roll my eyes at the thought. He probably _is_ just that awesome. My waning interests turns, and I look back to my 'Fathers' features.

His face is angular, less filled and wrinkled. The spikes of his hair are held in place by a black headband, the symbol of his village proudly displayed. I think he's wearing some sort of vest, grey or green, I can't tell in this lighting.

I look up and take in my surroundings for the first time. It's pre-morning. We're out of the city; a-ways from it, if the deserted dirt roads are anything to go by. But I think we are still in The Land of Hot Water. I don't have much of a reference though, because Mother rarely let me leave the brothel, let alone the city.

My eyes are wide and I blink slowly, not wanting to miss a moment as the grey world around me quickly becomes infused with color. It's so strange to see nature after being surrounded by filth and stone. The air tastes clean; fresh. The leaves on the trees we pass by are incredibly green, nearly blinding to my squinting eyes. And the smell- it's earthy in a way I haven't experienced in more than four years. I love it.

The sun's rays trickle teasingly a cross my face, their warmth inviting me into a new day. I can only hope it will be a good one. When it finally rises over the horizon, I look back to Jiraiya.

His expression hasn't changed from one of intense thought, his features wrinkling slightly. I catch sight of something weird on the left side of his nose (a beauty mark, maybe?) and stare at it.

I know I'm being unnervingly silent through all of this and I briefly think that this is not normal child-like behavior. Or is it? Each child is different, so I suppose it matters very little at this point how I act. My 'maturity' could simply be written off as a product of my circumstances. But I shrug off these speculations, annoyed. I am a child in body, if not in mind. I'll figure things out.

I see him glance at me once, twice, before suddenly he's twisting, strong arms pulling me towards his front to be set on the ground. My legs wobble beneath me, tingling as the blood circulates back though them, but I'm able to find my balance despite the discomfort. His large hands linger for a moment before pulling away, one lifting to awkwardly rub at the back of his neck. Then he coughs.

"So…" He begins, mouth twisting as he seems to struggle with words.

Amusement floods me at his obvious discomfort. I don't think he knows what to make of me; this tiny white-haired child watching him with old eyes.

Pity briefly tugs at my chest (he _really_ doesn't know how to do this) but I decide that won't let him off so easily. He's got four years to make up for, after all.

My hands clench at the front of my shirt defensively, and I curl my body forward, shrinking into myself in a way that has almost become instinctive. I let my eyes glaze with liquid and suck in my bottom lip to stop it from quivering. Playing the defenseless child was so much easier when I actually was one. It helped that the brothel staff was rough in their treatment of me; I'd learned when to flinch appropriately and when to just duck and run.

His dark eyes widen, then narrow on my cringing form, keenly taking in my every action.

My voice is naturally deep, the sound raspy and garbled as it's dragged up from the back of my throat. Still a child's voice, but a strange one, different from my voice in the _Before._ It's probably a result of the silence I maintained for the first three years of this life. I hadn't wanted to speak until I'd had a firm grasp on the native language, but when I had begun, it was in full sentences. That was four months ago; I was still rusty with my social skills and painfully new at verbalizing things. Hence, the reason why I kept to blunt statements.

"You've kidnapped me." I declare solemnly, twisting the fabric in my hands farther.

He sputters then, hands waving uselessly, face growing red. It's arguably the most entertaining thing I've seen in a long time.

"NO! I- your Mother – Sen and I, we-" He stopped, huffing and rubbed a hand down his face. He took a deep breath.

"It was decided that you would come live with me. As your Fa- Your Mother thought I would be better suited to taking care of you."

I snorted mentally. My 'Mother' just wanted to get rid of me. My feet shift nervously; discomfort not altogether faked as I peer up at him though narrowed, distrustful eyes.

"Who _are_ you?"

A pause.

Then he's striking a pose, thumbs out, teeth gleaming and smoke billowing behind him. I'm stunned despite myself.

"Why, I'm Jiraiya, Legendary Sannin of Konoha, Toad Summoner and Sage!"

I blink at him and his smile widens.

My mouth opens and a whisper slips out:

"Scary…"

I proceed to watch a real life face plant, comically involving tripping on nothing and ending with an exaggerated slump.

It makes me smile and I think that's what he was going for all along, because he's grinning, even though his face is covered in dirt. He dusts himself off and strolls over, large hand lifting towards me.

I can't help it.

My smile drops.

And I flinch away.

His hand is frozen above me, his entire body still. Something dark crosses over his face and a muscle in his jaw twitches with the pressure he's exerting with his clenched teeth. I catch sight of his eyes and for the first time since being in his presence, I _see_ something. Just a flash and then it's gone. For an instant, the air grows heavy with something dark and I choke on a sob of terror. I like to think that my reactions are all part of my act, but reality is much different. Experience is what makes an actor and I've had plenty.

Then I feel his hand on my head, steady, warm and comforting, like in the _Before_. And it's enough to make me want to cry again, so relived because someone cared enough to make a fool out of themselves just to make me smile.

My 'Father' leans forward to look down into my watery eyes, tracking the tears with a seriousness that belays his previous actions.

"Shirane."

I force myself to meet his gaze.

"Would you like to go on an adventure?"

He can't realize the significance of his question, no matter what revelation he's just had about his bastard child. My head nods under his hand.

And that was that.

* * *

**AN: Ah, well. Not a whole lot happened in this one, though it was very difficult to write. I was trying to establish the timeline, solidify Shirane's personality at bit and keep their reactions realistic and understandable. I also tried to 'show' rather than 'tell', but I'm not too sure I succeeded. How do people do it? It's **_**really**_** hard to write a character with the mindset of an adult but the actions of a child. I also wanted to get my word count to 2,000 for this chapter but… it didn't happen. I was even thinking about rewriting the entire thing **_**again**_**, but it covered what I wanted it to so I was kinda at a loss at what to do with it. Also, I made Shirane cry. Again. But the kid's four, so… Anyway, like I said before, I had a hard time with this one and would love feedback on it. Please tell me what you thought about it and if things made sense.**

**Sen= Shirane's Mother**

**Review Please,**

**~Delgodess**


	3. Chapter 3

He watched me.

I hadn't noticed it, not at first.

He watched the careful way I handled my chopsticks when we ate our meals, the hesitation in my fingers. He watched my mouth form the syllables of names, places; the important suffixes left unattached. He watched me barter for the first time, buying things for our groceries as he'd taught me, my voice frank with stilted sentences. He watched the ducks and curves my body made as we walked the crowded streets of the towns we passed though, never brushing, never touching; how the beautiful lines of kanji he'd left me to learn turned sour, the elegant script jerky and unkempt when he'd lean in too close.

His eyes observed this and other small things, picking out these tiny quirks with the experience of a seasoned shinobi. And always, he was smiling. It was the same smile he'd made weeks ago, on the day he'd found out I was a girl.

* * *

It turns out that Jiraiya's adventure involved _a lot_ of research. Though not of what I was expecting. Reconnaissance, networking, the whole bill- was done over many-a-cup of steaming tea in every tourist town, hick village or roadside tavern we came across. There had been dozens. He with his worn clothing and nicked walking stick, and me in my- well, 'brothel clothes'. They were hand-me-downs, faded and now dirt-stained, but they were all that I had. And I wouldn't _dare_ complain; I was having much too much fun for that. But it was a clever cover. No one looked twice at the white-haired traveling hermit and his little shadow.

The travel though…it was something new and exciting. In the three weeks since I'd first begun wandering with him, Jiraiya had seemed more than intent with camping in the woods. Sure, we went to towns to meet with his contacts, but we never stayed there. It hadn't bothered me much either, as I was far too interested in the environment I now found myself in. '_The grass is always greener on the other side'_, as they say.

Then we '_happened'_ to come across _it_.

The bathhouse its self was not overly large, but with the attached inn, it saw a lot of service. Steam hovered over the place like a shroud, lending it an air of calm tranquility.

Jaraiya practically floated towards it, eyes vacant in some twisted fantasy and mouth parted in what could only be a pant.

I squinted. Yep. The man was drooling. Perturbed, I stepped away, turning the act into one of those skip-hops children do when they're excited. Or have to pee. Meh, technicalities. I looked around as we entered, stopping in the bath house foyer to wait for an assistant to show us to our room. It was pleasant, all cool calming colors, natural light and cultivated gardens. Natural hot springs were the best. I looked up just in time to see a harried-looking bath house attendant slipping behind the front desk to skim quickly over an enormous log book.

My skinny feet tap quickly against the ground as I struggled to keep pace with the Toad-Sage's longer strides, his, shall we say, _excitement_, overriding his common sense.

Though I really shouldn't complain. His perverseness, ehem, _natural manly instincts_, are probably the reason why I exist. Gross.

I fight the urge to grin though, exasperated and amused as I trailed to a stop beside him as we enter the foyer and then reach the counter. He knew he could depend on me to find my way if I got lost. He allowed me a fair amount of independence, more than what I was used to. It was a shinobi trait, I think.

Because Jarayia, though he was by no means a neglectful parent, was not all together an attentive one either.

There were nights when I would startle awake, suddenly bereft. The feeling of loss would pull me from the warm comfort of my bed roll as if I had been dragged from it. My eyes would snap open, searching. Only to find nothing: just an empty mat across from mine, the dark gray blanket undisturbed.

I don't know where he went those nights or why he would leave me so unprotected. I only know that I would lay, quivering, silently watching the shadows until my fragile body gave in to exhaustion.

That he would always be there in the morning, smelling of sweat and something more metallic was a small comfort.

Still, his large hands were gentle when he'd help me brake camp, patiently guiding my own with the ease of long practice.

I tried not to flinch away, forcing myself to remain still when he'd take my wrist, rotating it to the proper angle, but sometimes I couldn't help it. He'd let me go immediately of course, but more than once I'd seen his eyes darken before he'd casually turn away.

I was not naive. Though I don't know where he would go the nights he left me, I knew what he _did_. Rather, I had an inkling. The same hands that kindly ruffled my hair had also taken the lives of who-knows how many people.

I was afraid of his hands.

I was afraid of _him_.

And he knew it. But I didn't want to be, so I tried, I _tried_ to see Jiraiya as more than just another stranger I was forced to rely on.

So when his hand came to rest on my head in a gesture he seemed so fond of, I deliberately relaxed my body and scrunched my features to glare up at him like a petulant brat.

Surprise crossed his face for an instant, before a mischievous smile lit his features.

Then he pushed down harder, grinding his knuckles in to ruffle my hair into my face, the grin obvious in his voice.

"Me and the kid need two beds."

A real squawk of indignation slipped from my throat as I tried to bat his hand away, tiny limbs flailing. He laughed and scooped me up as we were led to our room. I forced a huff, fighting off the stiffening of my limbs long enough for him to place me down and receive our room key from the bowing attendant. Then the man was sweeping into the room, discarding travel pack and clothes alike and flying to tie a short towel around his middle, giggling rather disturbingly all the while.

It all happened in a flash, and for that I was thankful. I really didn't want to be any more traumatized than I already was. I rushed to the toilet as soon as he got out of my way, flinging my tiny pack (something he insisted on me carrying) towards the bed farthest from the window as I passed. I'm excited at the prospect of warm, soothing water, a luxury to calm my aching limbs. Growing pains were no walk in the park. After using the facilities, I stripped, cringing at each gleeful giggle I could hear through the door. Once properly covered, I dared the outside world, only to be snatched up (again), and carried in a blur of colors to a washroom just outside the hot springs, where I was promptly dumped.

Blinking spots out of my vision, I felt a pout form on my lips as I was, once again, left to my own devises. Then, shrugging, I scrubbed myself down, washing away the filth from our travel. It is only after I exit the wash room that I realize my predicament.

This was not communal. And we were not alone. I look away from the other men, searching for a familiar white-haired head and see, there, directly to my right, a tall wooden fence, by which my father figure is crouching, murmuring to himself with notes in hand.

Some of the men are chuckling. Most are scowling. And I feel like I want to disappear, swearing that I have no affiliation with the crazed man. Which is kind of futile, what with me looking just like him and all.

Then a thought occurs to me. A wicked grin spreads on my face. I slip into the water and creep closer to the creep, before adopting a look of innocence and tugging lightly at a water-logged strand of hair.

The man hums distractedly as he peers though a conveniently placed hole.

I go for the kill.

"What are you looking at?"

"Research… heh heh."

I tug harder.

"But isn't that the women's side of the hot springs?"

"_Oh_ yes."

I pause, becoming genuinely unnerved. Perverts aren't so funny up close. My head tilts, damp hair sticking to my face and my eyes widen imploringly. I can feel the glower of the other men prickling at the back of my neck. Amusement gone now, I just want him to stop.

"_Why_ are you looking at naked women." I demand in a whisper.

"Shhhh! Don't you want to help me with my research?! Be quiet!" He hisses back, face flushed. "It is a man's' duty to admire beautiful things, especially round, plump…humm."

He trails off, but I press forward, tense and wringing my hands under the steaming water.

"But I'm not."

"What?" He mumbles, distracted.

I swallow. "A man."

A large hand comes down to absently ruffle my head, pressing my loose hair down to tickle the bare skin of my shoulders and chest. My hands clamp down on the towel covering my waist, holding back a flinch. "Don't worry," He assures. "that'll come with time. When you grow up."

"But I don't want to." I whisper, a strange mix of child-like fear and adult understanding, clouding and confusing my thoughts and speech.

Paper crinkles as the Super Pervert scribbles something down, still bent and raking in the figures on the other side of the fence. "What? Grow up?"

"Become a man." I wince as I say it, small body stiff.

"And why not?" Humoring and exasperated, Jiraiya glances back at me, smiling. Then his smile drops.

His form straightens as he takes in the child's defensive posture, how the little body seems to want to tuck into his side, the way the green eyes flicker, limbs shivering.

"Because I'm a girl." She confides, head down, voice low.

The Toad Sage stilled. He paled.

And then, in a puff of smoke, he was _gone_.

And Shirane finds her sodden form alone and crying on the soft sheets of her motel bed.

* * *

Jiraiya had learned many things in his shinobi career. His sensei had taught him the value of knowledge- how and when to use it. His teammates had taught him the value of flexibility- in his thoughts and in his actions. War had shown him the value of many more things: patients, a critical eye and a (un)healthy dose of paranoia. He had learned how to use these lessons to his advantage. But in this instance? They completely failed him. So he went back to academy basics: attack, defend or retreat. This... was a tactical retreat. Or so he told himself.

He thinks of the past few weeks, looking for signs, instances, _any_ _hint_-

-and it all becomes so unbearably obvious.

This child, _his_ child, was _female_.

Of course his spawn was female. The careful way she moved, a geisha's grace. The voice, low and husky, easily mistaken for a boys', but when she laughed…! And the "_potty breaks_"! Why hadn't he _checked?!_

Kami, he had a _daughter_.

Not a boy like he'd thought, not a son, an identical little minie-me he could (_would be expected to_) mold into a stronger, _better_ version of himself.

A little girl.

His little girl.

Jiraiya breathes deeply of the Mount Myōboku air, savoring the moist cleanness of it all. He hummed, grey eyes squinting. Then he chuckles.

It made sense now. She was such a tiny little thing, all elbows and knees.

No. She wasn't a boy.

But… he was alright with that.

* * *

I wake curled in a nest of white sheets, lazily sitting up to blink at my surroundings. I am cozy and comfortable, and there is bright light streaming through the open window. I hear humming, familiar and calming, and it takes me a moment to recognize Jiraiya, cross-legged on the floor, scrolls spread and ink drying in whirling shapes. I lift a fist to rub at my sticky eyes, then pause in the movement, remembering. My head ducks down, loose hair covering my face, as my unoccupied hand clenches around the fabric incasing me in a warm cocoon.

I look up when the humming stops, only to find dark eyes watching me, thoughtful and soft.

Then he smiles, warm and bright.

And I smile tentatively back.


End file.
